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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24518383">Prima Facie</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/kekinkawaii/pseuds/kekinkawaii'>kekinkawaii</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The West Wing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M, Fluff, Gen or Pre-Slash</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 08:08:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,822</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24518383</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/kekinkawaii/pseuds/kekinkawaii</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Midterms were hell on Earth, but Chris knew how to reign himself in, how to keep himself from studying six feet into the ground.</p><p>Evie, apparently, did not.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Evelyn Baker Lang &amp; Christopher Mulready, Evelyn Baker Lang/Christopher Mulready</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Prima Facie</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/ensorcel/gifts">ensorcel</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>ensorcel: this pairing only has five fics i'm so sad<br/>me, who has never watched the show nor read the fic: so tell me about this pairing</p><p>This is the result of that conversation! Thus, disclaimer: I don't know West Wing, nor the characters (although as far as I know they get, like, fifteen seconds of on-screen time so it doesn't even matter that much), nor anything law-related, so apologies for any mistakes. Whoever is reading this, I hope you still enjoy it! Leave a kudo or comment and I will be happy for the rest of the day &lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>When Chris first saw Evelyn, it was the first day of university, and he had walked into the lecture hall bright and early at seven, a whole half hour ahead of time, determined to be the first one there in order to obtain the seat in the very front row and in the very middle, where he had an impeccable, stellar view of the professor and all the subsequent notes he would be scribbling on the board.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was sweating from the fifteen-minute walk outside the campus, and arrived with a grateful breeze from the door being pushed open, only to see that his very front row, impeccable, stellar seat was already occupied.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was wearing a cream-coloured blouse and had her hair done up in some sort of elegant-looking coiff, and she was typing something into her MacBook with a look of concentration so intense that she hardly noticed that someone else had entered the room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He decided to approach her, anyway—slightly miffed at being stripped from his pre-designated spot (okay, so maybe it wasn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>designated—</span>
  </em>
  <span>at least not officially, but, dammit, half an hour was half an hour). Begrudgingly, he accepted the fact that maybe a few feet to the left of the smack-dab centre wasn’t going to demolish all of his abilities that had already gotten him so far. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The chair let out a quiet squeak when he pulled it out, and it was only then that she glanced up, giving a little jolt of surprise at the sight of someone else. Chris wondered if she was thinking the same thing as her: who would arrive so early, other than themselves? That inexplicable shimmer of innate curiosity at the other.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His curiosity peaked when, upon polite chitchat, it was revealed that she too had graduated valedictorian. She, too, had a 4.0. She, too, had gotten an impressively-hefty scholarship to Stanford, and held the hopes of becoming a Supreme Court Justice in the future.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the professor finally arrived, he arranged their introductions by sending them into an engaged class discussion about a classic landmark case. Chris had confidently stood his ground, being the first to speak.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Evelyn then proceeded to stand up and utterly demolish his stance with a full-blown defence, strong enough for court, hell, the fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>Supreme Court—</span>
  </em>
  <span>Chris didn’t know who Evelyn Baker Lang was going to be in the future, but he was certain she would not be forgotten.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>From there, things had only escalated. They spoke, and argued, and debated, with the force of a thousand suns and twice the heat. Every point Chris threw, Evelyn received, investigated, and tossed back with a perfect counter. The two seats in the front row became the location for hundreds of heated discussions, a one-on-one jury.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Chris never arrived late to a single lecture. Evelyn would always, always, be there first, waiting for him with a whip-sharp posture and an eager sparkle in her eye.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Chris would always get a red-penned A on his papers, glowing phrases of praise in the near-unreadable scribble and scratch all professors seemed to take on after enough time in their profession. Evie would get a paragraph, a verbal commandment in the form of a handshake and a few exchanged sentences as she left the lecture hall. She never bragged, never boasted, either—merely accepted it with a nod and a grateful word on her tongue, a rosy flush on her face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They were making a name for themselves, and Chris hadn’t even noticed until he overheard the other students in the hall one afternoon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ask Chris. Or Evie.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, Evie would know. Or Chris.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Chris and Evie were sharing a loveseat at the top of the class.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Chris doesn’t remember when he first started referring to her as Evie in his head, but one day after a particularly-grueling lecture, he had waved goodbye and said, “See you next time, Evie,” and it only registered by the time he was already at the door, only enough time left for him to turn around and see the smile playing on her lips as she packed up the rest of her books.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The professor seemed hellbent on torturing his students. By the time midterms rolled around, the sky was a constant state of grey and gloomy, as if a depressed painter, stricken, had streaked the clouds with a palette of misery. A perfect portrait of pathetic fallacy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Chris was waist-deep in exam preparation, case studies and counter defences kicking up a ricochet in his mind at all times of the day. He murmured about amendments in the line for coffee, ran through the Criminal Code in his head as he showered. Had an oddly-disturbing dream about being a defendant for his professor who had been charged for the murder and disembowelment of eighteen-thousand bright pink elephants, thus infringing section 221 of the Pink Elephant Code, before ultimately being charged and sentenced for three years of community service on the Moon. (He had woken up that morning in a cold sweat for losing the case, and wondered what it spoke to his priorities that </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>had been his cause of most distress.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As for Evie.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had been such a gradual change, a slow slide into normalcy, that he had nearly missed it amongst all the mass-spread panic throughout the campus. She raised her hand slower, spoke quieter, took longer to pack up her things before leaving the lecture hall—always, always, the last person there. The professor often joked about simply leaving her a copy of the keys.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After another night of poring over textbooks until the unholy hours of the morning that resulted in Chris waking up with an imprint of the glossary of the textbook smashed into his left cheek and a crick in his neck that rendered him immobile for a solid five minutes, he finally decided that a change was in place. He had learned enough of this after that infamous AP History exam back in Sophomore year. It would make no difference how many sheer facts he had packed into his head if he was too fucked up to even pick them up and take them out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So rather than scouring over the syllabus and tracking their progress, rather than taking his daily two-pages of study guide making-slash-memorizing, Chris spent that morning staring blankly at a wall whilst clutching his cup of coffee in his hands, focusing on his breathing and the way the warmth of the coffee leached into his palms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he entered the lecture hall that morning, he felt like a new man. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then he saw Evie, and his smile stuttered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She looked up upon hearing him approach. Her skin was pale around the eyes, but a closer look registered dark circles hastily covered in powder. Her hair was pulled back today, tied into a ponytail so tightly it seemed to tug at her scalp. When she smiled, it strained at the edges.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Chris blinked, and all of a sudden, exhaustion screamed from every inch of her pores.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Morning, Chris,” she said. “You look good today,” she added, an absentminded comment, before ducking her head back down to pen another sentence into her notebook in that insanely neat, bizarrely tiny handwriting of hers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jesus, Chris thought. Was I like that?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Evie,” Chris said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Evie looked up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How are you?” Chris said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Evie gripped her pencil and didn’t put it down. “I’m doing well, thank you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you really?” Chris said, too quickly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Evie pursed her lips in a split second before letting out a little huff of air. “Yes, really. Do you need anything, Chris?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, just making small talk,” Chris said, suddenly realizing that he couldn’t remember the last time the two of them had put down their textbooks and notepads and just talked—about politics and the current news, not even, about literature and the newest movie and the way the TA’s haircut made her look like an overgrown carrot top. All of a sudden, he missed it like a sharp ache in his chest. He missed </span>
  <em>
    <span>her. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Evie opened her mouth to respond, and it was cut off in a sudden yawn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That solidified his concern, magnifying it until it was no longer a nagging thought but a bright red flag, impossible to ignore now that it was raised.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have you been taking care of yourself?” Chris asked. “As in, eating and sleeping properly?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Evie shrugged. “I’m fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t seem fine,” Chris pressed. “Evie, when did you last have a proper night’s sleep?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Evie paused for too long before avoiding the subject, so blatantly that it alone spoke volumes to her state of well-being—never avoid a question outright, always, </span>
  <em>
    <span>always, </span>
  </em>
  <span>address it as quickly as possible before making a smooth transition. Rule one of being questioned.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’ll be fine,” Evie said, instead of doing any of that. “Midterms are in two weeks, Chris, it’s inevitable that I’ll need to sacrifice my leisure time in order to fully prepare myself.” She frowned at her notebook and crossed something out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Chris felt a pang of alarm—Evie </span>
  <em>
    <span>never </span>
  </em>
  <span>crossed things out. Erasers and whiteout were her gods. He had been teasing her about her white-out collection just yesterday, it seemed, but now that he thought about it, it had been so long ago. Weeks, months, when the looming grimness of midterms were only a speck on the distant horizon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” Evie said, almost hastily, when Chris tried to talk again. “I just—I really need to focus on this right now, Chris.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Chris tamped down a bout of stubbornness. There was no use convincing her, not now—he knew it well enough from firsthand experience. He settled down, agreeable, and waited for the professor to arrive, all the while plotting his strategy.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He launched it the instant the lecture was over.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Evie reached to grab her bag and tuck her textbooks in, Chris helped her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Evie stalled her hand when she saw Chris already reaching for the pile of books. “Thank you,” she said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re welcome,” Chris said. He waited until she was all packed up, and then launched the formal arraignment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Evie,” he said, taking on a firm, no-nonsense tone. “You’ve been pushing yourself way too hard. You’re exhausted. There’s a limit to the amount of studying someone should do, and you’re dangerously close to treading over it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Evie was silent for a moment, and then she shook her head with a patient smile. “Seriously, Chris, I appreciate the effort,” she said. “But I’m okay, I really am.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(Not guilty.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Chris cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Mr. Simmons?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The professor turned around from erasing the blackboard. “Yes, Chris?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Chris waved his hand at Evie in a dramatic flurry of fingers. “How tired does Evie look right now? How tired </span>
  <em>
    <span>has </span>
  </em>
  <span>she looked recently?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Evie let out a soft noise of surprise. Mr. Simmons turned to her, and narrowed his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You </span>
  <em>
    <span>have </span>
  </em>
  <span>been looking rather rough lately,” he observed. “Have you been sleeping enough?”</span>
</p><p><span>“I’m fine,”</span> <span>Evie insisted. Ignoring her, Chris waved at a student rushing out the door.</span></p><p>
  <span>“Hey!” he shouted. “Does Evie look tired?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The girl made a confused face at Chris, and then glanced at Evie. “Well, yeah,” she said bluntly. “She looks half-dead. Her collar isn’t even ironed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Chris grinned at the way Evie turned red, fingers flying to adjust her shirt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Witnesses, my dear,” he presented.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Evie looked flabbergasted for a moment, but quickly regained her stride. “Insufficient evidence,” she declared, and turned to the professor. “You don’t know for sure how much I’ve been exerting myself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mr. Simmons raised his eyebrows. “I do, actually, because you’ve been emailing me an average of twice a day for the past week regarding essay formatting and marking schemes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The girl Chris had stopped had stepped to the side to watch, and Evie turned to her now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s exam season,” Evie said. “Everyone’s working harder than strictly normal. That’s special measures—it should be accounted for, and therefore renders my own higher-than-usual weariness as typical, and no more outlandish than what is a reasonable amount.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The girl merely shook her head. “I agree with you when you say we’re all working harder than usual,” she said, “but you’re way over that limit, even within the boundaries of your so-called statute.” She looked over to Chris, who was beginning to feel the tingles of triumph at his fingertips. “You look after her, alright? If she keels over from exhaustion, who else is gonna be there to debate with you in class?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course I’ll take care of her,” Chris said. “And thank you for your testimony.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You got it,” she said, smirking before leaving the room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Chris turned to Evie with a little flourish of a gesture. “See? I bet if the TA was here, he’d tell you the exact same thing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hearsay,” Evie muttered. Chris just smiled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Any final arguments, Ms. Baker Lang?” he asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Evie shook her head with an exasperated look. “I really appreciate it,” she said. “Thank you for looking out for me. But you don’t understand.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do,” Chris insisted. “Believe me, if anyone out there understands, it’s me. I’ve worked my ass off to get here, and I’m not going to stop now that I’ve made it to university—I’m not going to stop, ever. We both want to make Supreme Court, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Evie shook her head again, harder. “No,” she said. “I don’t want to be a Supreme Court Justice, I want to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>Chief</span>
  </em>
  <span> Justice.” She raised her head, and Chris was stunned by the determination in her gaze, that steel-hard look, strong enough to pierce. It always knocked him off his feet. “It’s been my dream for so long, and I finally have the necessary resources to pull that into a nearly-feasible goal. I’m not going to let it go, and I can’t go easy on myself, not now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Chris was hit with a wave of sympathy. “I get that, I do, but you won’t do yourself any good working yourself to the ground. You’re in freshman year, Evie, you’ve got so much more ahead of you—and both you and I know, it’s just going to get harder. If this is how you approach your first midterm, how will you even </span>
  <em>
    <span>survive </span>
  </em>
  <span>finals? And what about in court? This is all just preparation.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That only makes things worse, Chris,” Evie said, her voice beginning to waver. “If I can’t even handle this, how will I fare in the future? I need to learn how to work harder.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re missing the point entirely,” Chris said. “You can’t handle this </span>
  <em>
    <span>because </span>
  </em>
  <span>you’re working too hard. You need to learn self-regulation before you can even begin to tackle anything else. You need to learn to take care of yourself before you can take care of anything else.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Giving into an urge too strong to ignore for any longer, Chris reached for Evie’s hand. He laced their fingers together, feeling her too-cold fingertips cautious on the back of his hand, letting his concern and plea show in his eyes. “Evie,” he said. “You’re the smartest person I know. And I go to Stanford Law.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s the verdict?” Evie whispered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Chris felt something warm and honeyed stirring in his chest. “I declare you guilty.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Evie sighed. “What’s my sentence?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Chris smiled. “What are your plans for today?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have no other classes,” Evie said. “I was going to go back to my dorm.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Evie gave Chris a vexed look. “To study,” she said pointedly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not anymore,” Chris said. “You, my dear, are going on a walk with me along the San Francisquito Creek, and then we’re going to get lunch together, and then, if I’m lucky, I’ll convince you to take a nap in the afternoon.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Chris,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Evie said, disbelief creeping into the corners of her tone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Without your laptop,” Chris said, giving her a warning look.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Seriously?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Two, three hours,” Chris said. “You can sacrifice that much out of the hundreds you’ve already used up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Internally, Chris crossed his fingers. Boston was beautiful, and they had been so deep into the academics, so busy staring at that grey, rainy sky, that they’d forgotten about the cardinals singing along the treetops, the branches bursting with rich, deep red and oranges as the world slid into Autumn. He was already thinking of the route they would take, where they could stop by for lunch. Did Evie like sushi? He hoped she did. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Evie still looked apprehensive, Chris squeezed her hand that he was still holding. “Please, Evie? For me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Evie broke with a sigh. “Oh, alright,” she muttered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The professor, who had been watching, rapt, let out a delighted chuckle, rapped his knuckles against the top of the desk, and called out, “Court adjourned!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Chris grinned, and pulled Evie along by their interlocked hands all the way out the door.</span>
</p><p></p><div>
  <p></p>
  <div>
    
  </div>
  
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><em>Prima facie</em> is a Latin expression, meaning 'on its first encounter' or 'at first sight'.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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